We just got my husband’s schedule for January through June 2026. And honestly? It’s brutal.
For six months, he’ll be at a hospital an hour away, essentially acting as the “chief” for neurosurgery residents. It’s a program for third- and fifth-year residents to gain that leadership experience — managing cases, guiding residents, making decisions under pressure. On paper, it’s career-defining. Resume gold. The kind of opportunity people dream about.
Here’s the reality: he’ll live in a small apartment near the hospital, and I won’t be going.
Why?
Because we have two big dogs — our babies — and pets aren’t allowed.
Other residents have tried, and it ended in trouble. Add to that: I don’t have a car. We turned in my lease and decided two cars don’t make financial sense right now, because I rarely drive.
Even if I could get there, the logistics of shuttling back and forth with a baby and two dogs, during winter months that bring snow, sleet, and ice on highways where I’ve seen multiple accidents, including flipped trucks, make the thought terrifying. Driving that stretch, even once a week, is not safe.
It’s not reasonable.
So, for the next six months, he’ll barely see our daughter.
She just turned six months old. He might get home once a week if he’s lucky. Every other weekend is swallowed by night shifts, surgeries, emergencies. And those moments he does get with her will be rushed, exhausted, and fleeting. It’s hard to even put into words how much this will hurt — not just for him, but for all of us.
Now, I know some people might read this and think: “Well, then don’t marry a neurosurgeon. Or don’t take on a career like that and complain about it.” Let’s be real: that’s such a simplistic, almost stupid response.
If you can’t do it, don’t talk.
Because someone has to do it. Someone has to lead in a field that is life-and-death, that requires calm in chaos, absolute precision under pressure, and decisions that can literally save or cost a life.
Neurosurgery is not a career for the faint of heart.
You need someone fiercely confident, incredibly calm, capable of making split-second decisions that affect lives. That’s not just admirable — it’s heroic. And if someone is choosing to do that, committing to that kind of selfless work, the least you can do is acknowledge how hard it is for the families who hold down the home front while they go out and do this impossible job.
Supporting a neurosurgeon isn’t just helping with laundry or meals — it’s holding a family together while your spouse carries the weight of other people’s lives.
That’s me.
That’s what I signed up for. And yes, it’s hard. It’s exhausting. It’s isolating. But it’s also a privilege to support someone doing something so extraordinary.
I think about the realities constantly.
We live in a small town, and now, without him, the isolation hits hard. Even a normal day feels lonelier. Nights are quiet in a way that feels unnatural. The cold winds cut harder when you’re alone. And the highways that connect us to him in theory?
Dangerous.
Snow and ice are not just inconveniences — they’re hazards. Trucks and semis have been flipped over by the side of the road where we live. Even if I could drive to see him, the weather itself makes it impossible. It’s scary. It’s exhausting just to think about it.
And then there’s the lifestyle itself.
For six months, my husband will live a schedule most people can’t even comprehend. Days start before the sun rises, at 4:59 AM, to be at work by 5:02. Nights end whenever a case finishes. Weekends are largely consumed by rotations and calls. Night shifts start at 5 PM and often end around 10 or 11 AM the next day. And yes, technically, some of this schedule violates labor laws, but do you think anyone in residency will risk calling it out? Careers, references, rotations — all hang in the balance. So people endure. They swallow exhaustion, missed milestones, and emotional strain, because the system is ruthless and the stakes are too high to protest.
We tell ourselves this is worth it. That in the long run, our daughter will have a better life. That the sacrifices we make now will pay off later. That he will become an exceptional neurosurgeon, capable of leading others and saving lives.
But the reality, right now, is brutal.
Missing moments, enduring distance, navigating isolation, and facing the harsh logistics of life without a car in winter — it’s not just difficult. It’s heartbreaking.
And yet, amidst all of this, we survive. We hold onto each other in the ways we can. And for anyone wondering how we make it work, I need to say thank you to those who purchased from our Zola registry. Those diapers, wipes, and essentials — things that might seem small — have made the hardest days bearable. They are literal lifelines while my husband is away and I hold down our home alone.
So yes. The next six months will hurt. They’ll test patience, endurance, and resilience. But we’ll survive. We’ll persevere. We’ll love. And at the end of it, we hope to have done something extraordinary — not just for a career, but for the family we are building. Because supporting someone doing a job that literally saves lives isn’t easy. But someone has to do it. And someone has to hold the home together while they do.
UPDATED BIO:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: James Lewis on Unsplash
